“They have done their worst, sir.”
“No.”
She looked at me with a question on her lip.
Said I, “you must believe me yet a short while without questioning.”
Considering for a moment, she nodded. “You have a right, sir, to be trusted, tho’ I know not so much as your name. Then we must stay close in hiding?” she added very sensibly, tho’ with the last word her voice trail’d off, and she began again to weep.
But in time, having cover’d the dead baronet’s body with sprays of the wither’d bracken, I drew her to a little distance and prevail’d on her to nibble a crust of the loaf. Now, all this while, it must be remembered, I was in my shirt sleeves, and the weather bitter cold. Which at length her sorrow allow’d her to notice.
“Why, you are shivering, sore!” she said, and running, drew my buff-coat from her father’s body, and held it out to me.
“Indeed,” I answer’d, “I was thinking of another expedition to warm my blood.” And promising to be back in half an hour, I follow’d down my former tracks toward the stream.
Within twenty minutes I was back, running and well-nigh shouting with joy.
“Come!” I cried to her, “come and see for yourself!”